


Can't Keep Waiting

by Seraphina25



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: F/M, Sexual Content
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-30
Updated: 2014-07-30
Packaged: 2018-02-11 01:00:56
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,641
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2047119
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Seraphina25/pseuds/Seraphina25
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Post Reichenbach. Ten months before returning to London, Sherlock finds comfort in Molly Hooper's bed.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Can't Keep Waiting

**Author's Note:**

  * For [1MissMolly](https://archiveofourown.org/users/1MissMolly/gifts).



> Before we continue, I should warn you that this contains a slightly dub-con situation. Or at least, I think it does. I'm not quite sure really. The line is kind of blurry in my situation. If you keep reading, you'll see why...
> 
> This fic is also a gift for 1MissMolly - if you haven't read her story, "Those Who Mattered" I suggest you do so.

.

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" _What do you need?"_

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Despite an overwhelming consensus to the contrary, Molly Hooper wasn't as naïve as everyone believed her to be. Certainly, she made it quite difficult for others to view her as a discerning individual. Especially as she effectively blundered through most social interactions, and never failed to bluster and blush whenever Sherlock Holmes would be about. Most thought of her as merely a fool – and dismissed her accordingly. To them, she was a mousy little thing, with small lips and inadequate breasts – someone who didn't have the sense to know better than to develop a schoolgirl crush for Baker Street's resident sociopath. Yes, poor little Miss Molly Hooper was pitiable creature for sure. For years she had actively sought to engage in a romantic relationship with _Sherlock Holmes_ – and continued to do so despite the consulting detective's acerbic nature, and his propensity to insult her at every turn. And yes, she would often allow Sherlock to manipulate her into performing copious tasks for him – some slightly illegal, most menial in nature, and all beneath her capabilities as a pathologist.

However, despite all evidence to the contrary, Molly Hooper knew Sherlock Holmes better than most. She'd known all along that the compliments he paid her were merely a means to an end for Sherlock, and were undoubtedly insincere in nature. Just as well, Molly had known all too well that Sherlock was aware that whenever she asked him out for coffee, she was asking him out on a date. Just as she had bitterly known that his seemingly guileless responses had been, in all reality, calculated rejections. In spite of all this, Molly's affections persevered – much to her own consternation, and to the abject horror of most others whom were acquainted with her (her co-workers, a handful of DI's including DI Lestrade, John Watson, etc.)

These individuals would look on, and pity the miserable woman who had unwisely bestowed her romantic affections upon a man whom, in the estimation of the general populace, was incapable of returning any sentiment of the sort. Some watched with a perverse sense of amusement as Sherlock Holmes would belittle Molly with his well-placed barbs, often cruel and pernicious in nature. Others, would simply bite their lips, and stand idly by looking shamefaced as the consulting detective persisted with his unprovoked taunts…

It seemed that, as Molly Hooper herself couldn't muster up the resolution to properly rebuff Sherlock's insults, it became somewhat of an accepted practice to not only overlook the verbal abuse of her person, but to dismiss the mousy pathologist altogether. As such, Molly Hooper was viewed by her peers as much more of well-placed doormat than an actual human being. This sentiment, unfortunately, still remained much at the forefront of the collective consciousness at St-Bart's over eighteen months after the incident the press had dubbed the "Reichenbach Fall". This perhaps explained why Molly Hooper was currently performing the work of not one, not two, but three pathologists late into the evening of December 23rd, despite the fact that she was second only to the department head on the proverbial pathologist totem pole.

A truck had overturned in the middle of a bustling side-street early on the morn of December 22nd. The initial accident had killed seven, while the resulting pile-up had succeeded in claiming eleven more lives – three of which were _children_. Needless to say, such casualties were tragic, and the mere thought of performing these autopsies so close to Christmas unpalatable. So naturally, all of Molly's colleagues, even those on-call had begged off work. They all claimed to have family obligations – which Molly might have full heartedly believed if it weren't for the fact that only one of her colleagues was happily married with children. And none of her unmarried colleagues, whether single or otherwise, had any good reasons to be missing work two days before Christmas Eve.

Molly could have argued. She could have refused to work these past two days. She was, after all, the only one of her peers to have nearly two months' worth of paid vacation piling-up. And she had, unlike others, taken Christmas week off. However, she simply didn't have the will, nor the energy for such a confrontation. It was, after all, Christmastime, and Molly Hooper wanted nothing more than to curl up into a ball, and fester within her own misery.

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Pulling up his coat collar, Sherlock Holmes did his utmost best to merge in with his surroundings. He could not afford to be recognised. Thankfully, the Holiday rush seemed to be working in his favor. King's Cross Station was teeming with mindless, boring individuals. Each of which were so enamoured with their little Christmastime plans, that none realised that the infamous Sherlock Holmes was amongst them…

His gaze drifted about the station, and a derisive smirk pulled at Sherlock's lips. Everywhere one looked, the ground, the benches, and even the arrival stations were littered with numerous salacious rags, a good majority of which boasted his picture on the cover. Eighteen months after Sherlock's supposed suicide, the media remained enflamed over the story. Information surrounding the circumstances of his death had begun to emerge, and Richard Brook's identity was beginning to unravel under the scrutiny. Sherlock had very little doubt that he would soon be cleared of all charges – though the thought was but a cold comfort for the consulting detective. Several branches of Moriarty's criminal network remained active, and Sherlock estimated it would take him another year to dismantle them. In the meantime, his solitary existence would persist…

Though Sherlock would refuse to admit it, in the months that followed his faked suicide, Sherlock had come to the startling realisation that a life of solitude no longer suited him as it once had. When he had initially set out on his mission to destroy Moriarty's criminal network, Sherlock had known that his life would return to that which it was prior to John Watson. He had expected to seamlessly slip back into his old solitary habits. Sherlock, after all, lived a good thirty years in such a manner, and the consulting detective didn't foresee too many difficulties in returning to a solitary life.

Sherlock, of course, had been quickly disabused of such a notion within the first week of his mission.

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As Molly walked home that night, the Christmas spirit seeped from the very air. The lanterns that lined the streets of London were lit and decorated in festive greens and holly. Christmas lights of white, red, green and blue glittered away within the windows of storefronts, roof sills and balconies. Behind the din created by the great hustle and bustle of the last minute Christmas shoppers, Molly could faintly hear the soft spoken tones of Judy Garland's "Have Yourself Merry Little Christmas," as sung by a group of slightly off pitch carolers. Snowflakes lazily drifted down from the sky, and blanketed the grown in white sparkling crystals. It was a merry little scene, filled with laughter and joy, with but a single thing out of place…

Molly Hooper herself.

This Christmas would mark the twelfth year anniversary of her father's death.

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Prior to meeting John Watson, Sherlock had lived his life on the fringes of society. He found comfort in the dark little corners of London – those shaded areas which few individuals sought out, and none wished to visit in his company. It had been a simple and comfortable existence, if only because it was such a familiar way of life for Sherlock.

His time with John Watson, however, had affected him more than Sherlock had initially observed. Sherlock could no longer happily carry on in solitude as he once had, any more than he could ignore the thrill of a good murder. The silence, the loneliness ate away at him – and in the months following his suicide, Sherlock craved nothing more than to return to the life of companionship he had briefly known.

As time wore on, Sherlock found that John's absence wasn't the only thing that ate away at him. He began to miss the smells that permeated within 221B Baker Street, within the flat which he could now bring himself to readily admit had become his _home_. He missed the sound of Mrs. Hudson scurrying about, cleaning up after his experiments and putting tea out, all whilst bemoaning that she was not his housekeeper. He missed the exasperated glares Lestrade would shoot his way every time Sherlock was being deliberately obtuse. Most surprising of all – he missed Molly Hooper's fumbling and awkward smiles…

Death, it seemed, had inexorably changed him.

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Molly Hooper was used to living a life of solitude.

How could she not be? Her father had passed away from terminal stomach cancer when she was seventeen. Her mother…

Well, Molly Hooper had no mother to speak of.

When Molly was no more than five years old, Madeline Hooper had left Molly's father, Emery Hooper, in favour of pursuing an affair with a man of minor wealth and social standing. A man who rather preferred his lovers to be childless. As such Madeline did not visit, nor did she write Molly any letters, nor sent her any birthday cards or presents. Madeline Hooper had, as far as Molly could presume at such a young age, simply disappeared from her life altogether.

As Molly got older, she came to the all too obvious conclusion that her mother had weighed the decision, between her daughter and a comfortable arrangement, and had ultimately found her daughter lacking.

From that moment on, Molly Hooper avoided thinking about her mother altogether – almost as much as she pretended that she hadn't been affected in any way by the loss. She especially ignored these sentiments on those occasions where her peers would be particularly obnoxious, and tease Molly for her deplorable fashion sense, or her lack of proficiency at applying make-up.

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Molly Hooper had been awake for the last thirty-eight hours.

She wanted nothing more than to crawl into bed, and sleep away the rest of the week. But she couldn't – for several reasons. For one, Tom McKibbins, her boyfriend of nearly a year, was expecting her for brunch the following morning. He had planned a romantic little Holiday getaway, fully aware that Christmastime wasn't a happy occasion for her. He perhaps hoped to soothe her discontent with the particular holiday – though Molly couldn't imagine Tom succeeding in such an endeavour. The scent of death that currently clung about her skin was a sober reminder of the loss of her father – a loss that had become, over the course of the last twelve years, entwined with the very Holiday which marked the anniversary of his death. It was also the reigning reason why Molly couldn't go straight to bed as she wished. She needed to wash off the scent of death from her skin, or she would never be able to fall asleep…

Molly began discarding her clothing as soon as she'd finished securing the front door of her small apartment. She left a trail, one that lead straight into her bathroom. Her mind slow and sluggish, Molly stumbled into the shower, and stood under the cleansing spray for several long moments. As the washed the hours of autopsies off her body, her eyes began to droop. Molly nearly fell asleep twice while standing under the hot comforting spray, but managed to catch herself before falling into a dead faint in her porcelain tub. Molly half-heartedly attempted to dry herself, but soon gave up on the endeavour. Instead, she fumblingly riffled through the contents of her medicine cabinet, until she finally found a small packet of sleeping pills. She momentarily hesitated, knowing full well that she physically require one to fall asleep in her current state. But in the end, Molly decided to take one nonetheless. It was Christmastime, and since her father's death twelve years prior, whenever the holidays would near, she'd be plagued by horrible nightmares. Molly might not need a sleeping pill to fall asleep, but she certainly needed it to thoroughly knock herself out. It was the only way for her to get through the night nightmare free…

Afterwards, Molly crawled into her bed nude, her hair dripping wet. She was much too far gone to even consider expending energy riffling through her drawers to find a clean pair of pyjamas.

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No doubt Mycroft would be in a murdering mood if he ever discovered that Sherlock had taken an unsanctioned trip back into London before Moriarty's network was fully dismantled. But, as with most things that revolved around his brother, Sherlock couldn't be bothered to care. If anything, knowing that his brother would disapprove only urged him forward. Objectively, Sherlock realised that returning to London at this juncture was to take an unnecessary risk. However, Sherlock had spent the last eighteen months of his life in solitude, for ghosts kept no company but their own. With a growing sense of loneliness and despair knowing at his insides, Sherlock had been unable to pass up the opportunity to spend a night in the company of someone familiar to him – not when his mission had necessarily brought him through London. For obvious reasons, John Watson, Mrs. Hudson and Lestrade were all inaccessible to him at the moment. So instead, Sherlock found himself picking the lock to Molly Hooper's flat.

As the tumblers clicked, Sherlock felt a surprising thrill course though his veins.

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Molly was pulled from a world of perfect oblivion by the press of a warm touch upon her cheek. A familiar scent filled her nostrils – one which Molly instantly associated with a keen mind, dark, curly hair and piercing blue eyes. A thrill shot through her, as Molly's dazed mind came to the conclusion that she was dreaming about Sherlock Holmes. It all felt so real – Molly would have sworn that she could truly smell him, truly feel his hand ghosting across her cheek, tugging loose strands of her hair away from her face. Sighing happily, she burrows into the touch, her small hands grasping at Sherlock's much larger hand, keeping it firmly in place. Her eyes slowly flutter open, and she gazes up an image of Sherlock Holmes with his brows pulled together, a slightly confounded expression upon his face.

Molly giggles, and Sherlock's brow all but disappears under his dark messy curls. Turning her face into his palm, Molly can't help but think that perhaps she should have restricted herself to taking just one sleeping pill, instead of the two she had opted for. She's much more far gone tonight than she usually was, especially if she was dreaming that Sherlock Holmes was in her flat and gently caressing her cheek. Still, a giddy feeling swelled within her, and for the first time since the telly began playing those cheery little Christmas specials day in and out, Molly Hooper felt happy, and without any fear of repercussion, she places a gentle kiss upon imaginary Sherlock's palm.

She's about to pull away when Sherlock's hand gently, but firmly wraps itself around her jaw, holding her in place. Confused, Molly looks up at him. Sherlock's jaw is tight, his countenance oddly conflicted. His piercing blue eyes shift back and forth between her eyes and mouth. Molly feels the calloused pad of his thumb tracing her lips, just as she notices that Sherlock's breathing is laboured. After several long moments, a small thread of trepidation weaves its way inside Molly's impaired state of mind.

That is, until Sherlock's gaze decides to settle upon her lips, and desire clouds over his eyes. Before Molly realises what's about to happen, Sherlock leans down and presses a hungry kiss upon her lips.

Body and mind far too tired, and logic eclipsed by the impossibility of the scene, Molly melts into her dream.

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_"You."_

_._

_._

_._


End file.
